Defensive Wounds
by Byakugou
Summary: Maka battles her guilt after Soul is injured during the first encounter with Chrona, and Soul has his own issues to deal with. Mostly introspective. - Revised


**Author's Note: **I have revised this story, nothing major, just a few changes in the second half and now it's longer, so the ending is a bit different. The reason for this is that I didn't feel entirely pleased after I published it the first time and I don't believe in giving less than my best with my writing, I hope that this story will now haunt me no more. And again, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome and much appreciated, feel free to tell me what you think of the changes and if you are reading it for the first time, enjoy!

* * *

She sat in the hall by the door to the Dispensary, up against the wall, her legs tucked underneath her body as she stared at her bare hands. Her pristine white gloves had been discarded, thrown away in the nearest trashcan when she'd finally looked down to see them saturated with blood and felt the stickiness between her fingers. She was hardly squeamish about things like blood, but this situation was different, and the sight caused a wave of nausea to roll her stomach. Maka had scrubbed and scrubbed her hands until they were pink and raw, but she imagined she could still feel the blood; Soul's blood.

When she closed her eyes, Maka could still see, with painful clarity, the sequence of events that had brought her here. The arching sword coming down at her, and her partner materializing in front of her, not even fully metamorphosed from his weapon form, and the sickening sound of the lethal blade piercing through vulnerable, yielding flesh.

She remembered seeing him hit the ground with a limp thud, and herself only able to stand, frozen in shock, as a pool of blood quickly spread out from his prone form. She remembered falling to her knees beside him, holding him to her, where she could feel each ragged breath, labored and uneven. Maka was sure that Soul was going to die, right there in her arms, and it would be all her fault.

If she had never insisted they go to that church, if she'd not tried to take on an opponent who was clearly out of her league, if she had been more mindful of her surroundings – none of this would have happened. She'd screwed up; there was no other way to put it. Maka had been the one unable to act when she found herself trapped and cornered, and unwilling to defend herself for fear of harming her weapon, even when Soul demanded her to do so. And her moment of inaction forced Soul to make the hasty decision to use his own body to shield her from harm.

Maka wrapped her arms around herself, an icy cold shiver running through her body, painfully aware if it had been her to take the sword meister's attack, she would most surely be dead now, and she was simultaneously gratefully and selfishly wishing it _was _her instead.

She knew one of the added advantages of the weapon gene was it made individuals like Soul less susceptible to injury and more likely to recover from severe wounds than their less resilient technicians, but even Soul's inherent durability might not be enough. She'd seen it in Stein's eyes, and even Spirit's, the possibility that, even now, he may not make it. The idea of having to go on, knowing she had essentially killed her own partner, was unbearable. Maka didn't think she could continue as a meister if that happened, or if she'd even want to.

And what if it had been the other way around, her in that operating room, and Soul waiting out here, wondering if she were going to die? She knew he would feel the same guilt she was, perhaps more. He was the weapon, and to fail to protect one's meister – was to fail in the most fundamental duty of a weapon.

Soul was always telling her she was too reckless, too incautious in her actions, and that was why she usually followed his lead in battle. He was the rational one in tense situations, able to remove himself from the emotions which tended to drive Maka. It was an unusual collaboration of partnership roles, but one that worked out fine, especially for two incredibly headstrong and independent minded individuals.

This time, however, Maka hadn't listened to Soul's guidance, and her decision, brought on by panic, resulted in a grievous lapse in judgment. Everything she knew before now, her confidence, her surety in her abilities, was gone, irrecoverably changed.

* * *

The first sensation as he came back to consciousness was a numb tingling in his limbs, his body felt light somehow, his mind sluggish and muddled. The lethargic heaviness hanging over him was not like waking from sleep, which was always a chore for him and usually required several minutes before he could rally the effort to drag himself from unconsciousness. This was different, and somehow didn't feel right, for one he couldn't remember going to bed, and the last thing he could recall was the mission to Italy and the church where Maka had felt a large number of souls suddenly disappear.

The memory came to him in flashes.

_The technician with the pink hair and a weapon inside their body, a sword formed of black blood. _

_Maka, she had tried to run once she realized she was evidently outmatched by the obviously disturbed meister with the unnatural demon sword, but the door wouldn't open and she refused to use him as defense after the sword had proven capable of harming him even in his weapon form. _

_The sword slicing through the air towards his unguarded meister; an indescribable pain, like scalding water, rupturing his chest and spreading like fire throughout his body. _

There it was. He had tried to shield Maka because she was trapped against the door that only opened inward, unable to escape and unwilling to protect herself.

What had happened after he went down? Had Maka managed to get them out of there? She must have, if he was still alive. Or was he? What did death feel like anyway? He couldn't really feel anything, no pain, just numbness, nothing that would tell him whether he were alive or floating in some sort of void between life and whatever it was that came after.

Painstakingly, he began to open his eyes, and the offensive glare of light which greeted him convinced him that he was not, in fact, dead. His body however remained annoyingly unresponsive and when he tried to lift his arm, just to make sure it was still attached, he couldn't tell if the silent command yielded so much as the twitch of a finger. He felt the vibration of a strangled moan in his throat, yet he could not hear a sound.

The light assaulting his vision was suddenly blocked out and he saw the blurred image of Maka looming over him. He felt the vague sensation of her hand brushing through his hair, her other hand gripping his tightly.

So strange, having her touch him like this. The extent of their physical contact before now was holding hands in the moments it took him to transform, and the only time Maka seemed comfortable touching him was when he was in scythe form. Soul did not mind, since he wasn't keen on physical contact any more than Maka was, but he didn't find her unrestrained display of affection as unwelcome or unpleasant as he might once have and did not have the presence of mind to dissect the reason why.

There were tears in Maka's eyes, Soul noticed as his hazy vision started to clear, but she didn't let herself cry. He wouldn't have expected any less of Maka, she was always strong, invulnerable, never wanting to give anyone reason to think her weak. It was one of the things that drew him to her. She made him want to be brave too.

Her lips began to move, and he strained to hear what she was saying, but her voice remained muted and the attempt quickly sapped what little energy he had. He felt something like frustration at the continued unresponsiveness of his body and faculties, and at the same time, all he wanted was to sleep. He closed his eyes, intending to rest his eyes for just a moment, but despite himself, he was pulled back to the dark place he came from, unable to fight the blank oblivion from seizing him.

* * *

The surgery was successful; Soul was going to be okay. Maka couldn't remember a time in her life where she had experienced such immense relief, and she thought she might collapse on quaking knees when Stein first told her the news.

Once she was granted permission to see her partner, Maka could scarcely bring herself to leave his bedside. She sat in the chair next to his bed, her green-eyed gaze fixed anxiously on his chest, monitoring each breath filling his lungs and each slow exhale, assured with every rise and fall that he was alive. Though her astute observation did detect a slight hitch in his breathing, a mark of his injury, Maka concluded ashamedly and imagined the bandages and stitches under the thin white blanket and clean shirt he'd been changed into.

All this for her – because of her.

_I'll get stronger, I'll be better, so that this will never happen again. I promise you, Soul. _Maka vowed solemnly, feeling a hot stinging at her eyes and biting her lip to suppress the impulse to cry. The last time she'd allowed herself to cry was when she thought Soul was going to leave her for that stupid Blair, but those had been tears of anger and betrayal, these tears made her feel like if she started she would not be able to stop.

She heard a low groan and she looked abruptly to Soul's face and saw his eyes were open, blinking sluggishly. Maka moved immediately to his side, not even thinking as she took hold of his hand and let the other stroke his hair, thick and coarse through her fingers, in a soothing gesture that if she were honest, was more for her benefit than his. His eyes were glazed and unfocused from painkillers and residual anesthesia, and he seemed to look through her more than at her, but to Maka it was an encouraging sign.

"This is all my fault." Maka told him, regardless of whether he could hear her or not. "I'm sorry Soul, I was so stupid and it should have been me. You're really an idiot you know, jumping in front of me like that," she whispered thickly, the admonishment without any venom and the words sounding far more self-deprecatory. Soul's maroon eyes only squinted up at her, uncomprehending, before sliding shut again.

* * *

Soul remained in the school's infirmary for more than a week, and during the first few days did little more than sleep, although unfortunately not always restfully. A number of times, he woke himself up screaming, and Maka felt quite helpless, incapable of offering much by way of comfort to her distressed partner, other than standing there holding his hand while he thrashed and screamed himself nearly hoarse.

The episodes left him breathless and exhausted, his eyes haunted even as he tried to brush the whole thing off as nothing. Not once did Soul tell her what it was that tormented his dreams and Maka wasn't brave enough to ask.

Maka dreaded the time she spent at home, their apartment seemed too big with only her to fill the space and at the same time too small. The atmosphere was lonely and miserably quiet without Soul around, leaving messes just to get on her nerves or lazing about on the couch; napping, watching television, or listening to music on his headphones.

There was no one to argue with about whose turn it was to cook, and no one to cook _for._ She would read or do homework, but the distraction did little to stave off her loneliness, none of the everyday motions felt right without the hum of her partner's wavelength in the background. Even Blair seemed uncharacteristically forlorn.

It was aggravating. When was it that she had become so dependent on another person? Maka had grown used to relying solely on herself after her parents separated and her mother transferred to work overseas, while her father occupied himself with this woman or that woman. It was better that way, because then no one could let her down or tell her lies like, 'Papa loves you and Mama the most.' Then there was Soul, her partner. He was the one person she came to trust following the disastrous end of her parents' rocky marriage, even knowing the inherent fault of his gender.

When two people lived together and fought together, and held each other's life in the balance in every battle, it was an inevitable conclusion. Trust was essential to survival in their field of work.

Still, Maka had not believed things transcended much beyond necessity, they were partners and roommates and yet they bickered over stupid things and didn't have much in common. In many ways, theirs was a partnership that _shouldn't _have worked, and certainly, Soul and Maka had their difficulties, most noticeably in achieving successful resonance, but they were also considered to be one of the more formidable pairs in their year at Shibusen and the first to collect ninety-nine corrupted souls. They were fundamentally different, and those differences created a harmony that couldn't exist otherwise, strengthening the weak points of the other and amplifying each person's strengths.

They needed each other and it didn't have to be a bad thing. After all, Soul had proven he wasn't anything like her papa, he didn't tell her lies and was honest even when it hurt, and apparently held a greater loyalty than she'd dared to imagine. Maka wasn't going to be like her mama either, and give in to any infatuation; it wouldn't be an issue anyway, since Soul made it abundantly clear he didn't view her in that way.

School, Maka found, was not much better than the suffocating silence and solitude of home. The two of them had rarely been apart during school hours unless they were required to attend Meister only or Weapon only classes and Maka felt Soul's absence acutely, even though she visited him in between classes when she could.

People kept stopping her in the halls to ask how Soul was, from acquaintances to students whose names she didn't even know, and she doubted Soul did either. Maka supposed it was just the natural response to ask about someone who was hurt or sick, but it still irritated her when they would say, "I'm sorry to hear what happened." None of them had any right to be sorry over something that was entirely her fault.

Eventually, Soul was permitted to return home and given leave from classes for another two weeks to recuperate, which didn't mean he was going to get out of any assignments. Maka would make sure of that.

Being that she was aware Soul was in no shape to walk all the way home, Maka employed her father to drive them, because while Spirit had no reservations in making his dislike for Maka's partner known, he was also fervently prepared to do anything if it would make his daughter happy and hopefully get him on her good side, and she had no qualms in taking full advantage of the sway she held over him. He kind of owed her as much. Aside from that, Spirit seemed to have formed a grudging respect for the younger scythe after this whole incident, since it was thanks to Soul's willing self-sacrifice that his beloved daughter was uninjured.

When Maka chose to sit in the backseat with her partner rather than up front, Spirit expressed his sentiments with much pouting and grumbling as he drove but Maka simply ignored him, uncaring of her father's dramatics. Alternately, she switched from looking out the window to watching Soul, who only drowsed for the duration of the trip, still under the heavy influence of drugs and painkillers. She was relieved that at least he seemed at peace, though the catch in his breath was still there, and she fisted her hands in her skirt, biting down on her lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

Soul didn't wake from his light doze until the car came to a stop at the curb outside their apartment building and Maka nudged him lightly in the arm, looking at him with an expression had had been seeing a lot of, full of overt concern; anxious and timid and very unlike the Maka he knew. Feeling bleary minded and unsteady on his feet, Soul allowed her to support him as he climbed clumsily out of the car, her arm around his waist and his draped across her shoulders.

The walk up the stairs was excruciating, making his chest burn in protest and seeming much longer than he remembered and by time they reached their apartment, all he wanted was to lie down and sleep. Maka helped him to his room, Blair trailing along, the cat attempting to rub against his legs until Maka shooed her away, telling her in no uncertain terms that she'd better not harass him or risk bodily harm. Soul's lip curled in amusement. Usually he was the one getting punished for Blair's antics, and he couldn't say he minded having it the other way around.

Finally, he sat down on his bed, rubbing his aching chest. "I seriously need to change this shirt," he mumbled. "It reeks of disinfectant and Stein's cigarettes," he said with a grimace. He couldn't say he was disappointed to be out from under Stein's 'care', the man made him feel like a germ under a microscope and Soul didn't like knowing the doctor viewed him mostly as a specimen to study. Stein was an unnerving person to be around for extended periods of time.

"Maka, can you find something that buttons in the front?" Soul asked, looking to his partner.

"Sure," Maka said, a strange eagerness in her voice. She found a light blue button up shirt in his drawer and proceeded to assist him in easing the other shirt over his head, so as not to stress his wound and he hissed in discomfort as the stitches were tugged by the movements.

Maka was unprepared for the sight of his scar. For some reason, she had thought he would still be wearing bandages, but discovered that was not the case when the full evidence of how close Soul truly had come to death was revealed to her.

The scar extended from his left shoulder all the way down to his right hip and the skin tissue was red and puckered, pulled taut by the crude looking stitches. Professor Stein may have been efficient but he was hardly neat, she thought ruefully. Maka turned her back, unable to look at the proof of her failure any longer, or even face Soul, knowing that everything she was feeling shown clearly on her face.

Soul watched her, claret red eyes narrowed as he buttoned his shirt. She was tense, wringing her hands around the shirt she still held, her head bowed. He felt the tingling of her wavelength, which he found reached out to him subconsciously when Maka experienced intense emotion, and he knew. "You shouldn't blame yourself Maka," he said with a languorous sigh. "It was my choice, okay?"

"No," she said, her voice thick. "If I hadn't messed up, you wouldn't have had to _make _a choice. It's _my _fault, don't try to take the blame for me, Soul," said Maka vehemently.

"Fine. You made a mistake, everybody does sometimes, you just gotta learn from it, alright? Beating yourself up over it isn't going to make you feel better, and it won't change anything," Soul said, speaking forcefully in spite of the pain of his injury practically begging him not to. "I don't blame you for this scar and you shouldn't either. This scar means I did everything I could to protect my meister, and I don't regret that. I'd do it again too."

Maka whirled around, the knuckles of her clenched fists nearly white and moss green eyes overflowing with angry tears. "Don't say that! I don't want you throwing your life away for me, that's not how it's supposed to be."

"Then how is it supposed to be?" Soul asked, baring his serrated rows of teeth at her defensively. "You're the meister and I'm the weapon. I'm a tool for you to use to protect yourself, but you won't let me do my job."

"You're not just a tool! Don't say stuff like that about yourself." Maka's fury seemed to drain quite suddenly with that statement and she turned her face away, backing down from the fight. "You should try to get some sleep, okay? I'll wake you up for dinner." She started to leave, but paused at the doorway, her hand on the edge of the doorframe.

"Thank you," she said so quietly Soul was quite sure he'd heard her right, and then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her. His shoulders slumped after she was gone and he rubbed at his temple, somehow feeling he had lost the fight even if Maka was the one to cease fire first.

Lying down on his bed on his side facing the window, Soul evaded sleep for a while as Maka's words ran over in his mind like a mantra. _You're not a tool, you're not a tool. _But before he could figure out what those words meant to him, his eyes closed and his mind drifted off to the place within himself where a little red demon and a room with a piano waited for him.

* * *

Maka dropped Soul's shirt into the hamper on the way to her own room, throwing herself down on her bed and dragging her pillow to her, wrapping it in her arms. She wasn't sure what she felt at the moment, a mixture of anger and hurt and something she couldn't identify.

How could he say something so devaluing about himself? That he was nothing more than a tool? Shibusen did teach that weapons _were _tools, to be used at the meister's discretion, but meisters were also taught to treat their weapons as equal, and not lesser, partners. A partnership would not survive if one half viewed the other as an inferior party. Neither were weapons bound to follow the every whim of the one who wielded them, though they were encouraged to be the follower of the technician's lead.

But Soul was never one to fit the mold of expectation, and he was far too opinionated to be a simple adherent to her orders. Admittedly, this had caused a lot of friction in the beginning of their partnership, and they still struggled from time to time to compromise with each other. Yet in all this time, Maka hadn't considered Soul actually thought so little of his own value, a tool – _a dispensable tool, _was all he saw himself as. She didn't really didn't know her partner at all if he'd felt this way, perhaps since they first teamed up, and she hadn't a single clue, not an inkling, of it.

Not only was she a complete screw up, she was selfish too, always looking to the goal. Making Soul a death scythe stronger than her papa, pushing both of them towards that final objective before they were truly ready, not once thinking what he might feel, what he might want.

She wasn't sure how long she'd lain there, but when Maka sat up, pillow hugged tight to her chest, she saw on her digital clock that it was already after four-thirty and determined she should probably start dinner. After she fixed her slightly mussed pigtails, Maka left her room and decided to check in on Soul first, and found his door open a crack when she knew she had closed it. Curiously, Maka peeked in to see Soul lying down with his back to her, and a black ball of fur curled up on his pillow at the back of his neck.

Blair. Of course, she should have known, Maka thought with a roll of her eyes. At least the cat was behaving herself, she wasn't so bad to have around so long as she was in feline form, it was almost like having a normal pet, who _didn't _turn into a buxom, scantily clad woman.

Approaching the bed, Maka carefully drew the blanket up from the foot of the bed and laid it over Soul without waking him. For a moment she looked down at him, reassured that he appeared to be resting easy now and the worst of his nightmares were behind him. Releasing a breath from deep within her chest, Maka turned to leave, feeling a little more hopeful that things would get better now, she would do whatever it took to get stronger, and she would make sure Soul knew his worth to her was more than just a tool.

* * *

I'm happier with this ending. I like the idea of placing Maka in a false sense of security, meanwhile unaware of what is really going on inside Soul. Call me a sadist if you wish ;P


End file.
